And after the wedding, another memory, even more pathetic. Amir had wanted the envelope back. Bureaucracy demanded the original copies. He had called and called her mobile phone – her first – until she changed her number, and then he had shown up at her parents’ door. All this, and she didn’t tell him that she had thrown the envelope away, that he needn’t bother.
In the bin.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry. She ran out of the cottage. She held the phone in her hand and the rain did not matter. She had remembered what she had excelled at forgetting. I’m sorry.
He said, ‘I was angry with you at the time to the point that I fantasised about strangling you, hurting you as much as you’d hurt me.’
She listened to the venom in his voice and did not reply.
‘All those so-called friends sneering at me, saying hard luck buddy, with a twinkle in their eyes.’
‘Did you just say strangling me?’
‘Yes, strangling you.’
She laughed as if he had absolved her. ‘But I’m not as puny as you think. I would fight you off. Did you not know that I pretended I couldn’t lift things, that I let you beat me at tennis, win when we raced? You have no idea how muscular I’ve become; how heavy I lift in the gym. I’m not afraid of you.’
She wanted him to laugh with her, but he didn’t. ‘You should be, Salma. You should.’
There was a silence after this. Hours when he did not contact her again. And it was revealing of how often they were texting and talking that six hours without him felt long and strange. The world became quiet again without the buzzing and flashing lights of her phone.
When it finally did ring, it was not him but Norma. ‘I’m still away, Mum. Is your shoulder not a bit better?’
‘Still away?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. It’s only been a few days since we spoke.’
‘I’m aching all over, Salma, and the heating pad hasn’t been much help.’ There was an impatience in Norma’s voice. ‘I suppose you must have your holiday.’
‘I’ll be with you as soon I get back. I’ll pop round and give you a nice massage. I promise.’
‘What if I come to you now instead?’
She had to stop herself from laughing. ‘I’m nowhere near you, Mum. It’s best if you take some codeine.’
Norma grunted and ended the call.
Still no message from Amir, no calls, no wishing her goodnight or good morning. Instead of waking up to sobriety, feeling relieved or at least chastened, she felt deprived. Norma’s call hadn’t jolted her back to reality, back to weighing all that she could potentially lose. Neither had the messages from David and the children. Instead, she was sickening for Amir. When she could no longer bear the withdrawal of his attention, she texted him with her exact location, the address of the loch. She added the nearest airport, the nearest train station, the bus that could take him to the nearest village. ‘I’m waiting for you,’ she wrote.
She justified it to herself by saying that the least she could do to make amends was to give him the opportunity for revenge. He would not come, and she would be the one who had begged him to, the one who had lowered her pride and sullied her values for his sake. This time he would be the one to reject her. Then it could end. Fair and square between them. An even score.
The forest in the rain was dark and cold. Iman shivered. Her hair was wet. She was waiting for the Hoopoe. He no longer came to her room. Ever since she had taken off her hijab, he no longer told stories especially for her. She sensed his aloofness, his silent rebuke. She was meant to learn from his stories, to become spiritually nourished, to tame her ego and strengthen her resolve. Instead, the pull of the other current was visceral and strong. The costumes more intimate than his stories; her anger louder than his voice. But still she wanted to listen to him, the wisdom of his words mesmerising if difficult to apply, comforting despite being cautionary. To listen to the Hoopoe now, she must join all the others in the forest, sitting as if she were one of its inhabitants, no longer a princess with a crown, no longer high up in the attic. And she must wait and interpret. She must interpret because the language in which the Hoopoe spoke to other creatures was not her language, not her mother tongue. Here, with the wind blowing, with the sounds of the frogs, birds, deer and foxes, gulls, rabbits and squirrels, she must listen more intently. The story that the Hoopoe told sounded like an echo of another tale, a classic of two sides, someone turning from friend to foe, from companion to devil, someone becoming something else. And, by doing so, stepping far away, detaching, springing out of reach. The animals did not listen quietly, it was not their custom to do so. They heckled the storyteller, they threw in snippets of their own stories, insisting on adding their trials to the pot. There were wails and chuckles, grunts and screams that substituted words. The Hoopoe was revered but taken for granted. He was given time and freedom to speak, but his listeners knew better. Usually Iman did not cry when listening to a story, but this time she sensed the loss and the confusion, how change was the nature of life, whether violent or subtle.
Chapter Eleven
It was Saturday,
